


the more you stay the same

by gealbhan



Category: Smile For Me (Video Game)
Genre: Birthday Party, Friendship, Gen, Mute Flower Kid, Pre-Canon, a healthy dose of dramatic irony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-05 08:43:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20486069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gealbhan/pseuds/gealbhan
Summary: Tiff sings at a kid's birthday party.





	the more you stay the same

**Author's Note:**

> i'm working on a jerafina/lulia/tiff fic, but i wanted to get a better handle on tiff's character first and am really charmed by her canonically performing at one of fk's bday parties! since neither tiff nor flower kid (who's already supposed to be a player-insert) have canon ages, this doesn't really have a set time period, but i'm envisioning it as mid-80s as per my own hcs.
> 
> title from "put your records on" by corinne bailey rae. enjoy!

The unfortunate truth is that, right now, Tiff needs money and exposure more than she needs to be taken seriously.

Sure, her parents have offered to help her with anything she needs. Sure, she could probably have _some_ standards in these early days of building her reputation as a serious musician. Sure, these things combined mean Tiff could look for jobs outside of this backwater area. But she’s also always been one to stick to a comfort zone, and she wants to stay in that bubble for now, so she’s been doing what she’s certain all aspiring singers in small towns resort to doing: accepting any and all jobs that come her way.

As of late, that’s been a lot of birthday parties. A _lot_. The taste of birthday cake—as rare as her getting to eat the cake is—is growing stale and disgusting. The very thought makes her stomach turn now.

Tiff doesn’t mind performing at them, per se; the kids’, at least, are just fine. There, the only people who are drunk are their parents, who don’t put up too much of a fuss as long as their children are entertained. But there have been… so many. More people, it seems, had been born around this time of year in this area than she’d thought. Not that that was something she’d ever thought much about.

The birthday party she’s just signed onto, though—Tiff pledges it’ll be her last. From here on out, she’s going to move onto more sophisticated events. Gigs outside this town. Maybe not the best ones the world has to offer, not yet, but ones more her pace and style.

That aside, Tiff gets down to planning. She doesn’t have to do much, just show up and perform for a couple of hours, but she’s found that it’s best to know as much as possible about her clients. And she gets paid half in advance and it’s more than she’s gotten in full sometimes, so she finds herself actually excited for this event.

The local florist contacted her on behalf of her child, whose birthday it is. Tiff walks by the flower shop on a regular basis but has never been inside—flowers are lovely, but she hasn’t had much need to buy them; she’s always been more of the type to receive flowers—so she doesn’t know much about the woman. In theory, she’d already known the florist and her partner have a kid, but since she’s unfamiliar with the florist as a person, she also doesn’t know anything about her child. Tiff opts to perform a few generic songs and interact with the birthday kid as little as possible. Nothing against them, of course.

The party is held at a nearby park. When Tiff arrives, the sun is high in the sky and children are visible in every direction. She’s not much older than most of them, including the birthday kid—identifiable in an instant given their fashionable birthday hat—but that makes her feel weird, so she smiles about their youthful lack of care.

…Until one almost knocks her over. She winces and treads more carefully on her way to the pavilion, where the birthday kid’s moms—and the birthday kid themself—are waiting.

The pavilion is as nice as the park in general. The shade, Tiff already knows, is going to be a godsend as the afternoon gets even hotter. Underneath are several tables: two long and mostly unoccupied picnic tables, a refreshments table, and another piled on with presents. Tiff leaves her own gift there (something little she’d seen in a store that seemed fitting) before heading over to the kid’s moms.

“You must be Tiff Webber! So lovely to meet you in person,” says the florist—Tiff recognizes her voice from the phone conversations they’d had—with a smile, shaking Tiff’s hand. Her hand is rough but warm, her grip firm and equally warm. “Why don’t I show you over to where you’ll be performing?”

Tiff follows her lead to a makeshift stage. It’s cast in the shade of an overhead tree, which is a relief (Tiff’s overheated during performances before and it’s _not_ a good time), and it’s a pretty decent set-up. Leagues better than most prior gigs have prepared, at least.

Maybe this won’t be as bad as she’d thought.

The florist—who’s already nicer than most of Tiff’s previous clients and much nicer than her current agent—tells her to get her or her partner if anything isn’t up to snuff or Tiff needs help. Tiff nods, though she doesn’t think she’ll come running. She’s shied away from jobs quite this local so far, but if this sort of rustic hospitality bred of vague familiarity and small town etiquette, maybe she’ll look for some more.

For the most part, she’s allowed to set up with relative peace and quiet—emphasis on _relative_. Passing kids pause in whatever games they’re playing to look at her with that child-exclusive blend of fear and awe. There’s screaming every now and then, but at far enough a distance that it’s not too distracting. Tiff can never tell if the screams are terrified or joyful, but she figures that there are enough parental figures around that she’s not the one who should be worrying about that.

By the time she gets up to check her mic, there isn’t much of a crowd. A few kids have stuck around, sitting in the grass or chasing each other around in the general vicinity, and some adults are looking over their shoulders at her, but nothing to sneeze at. Tiff taps the microphone and clears her throat.

“Good afternoon, people! I’m Tiff Webber, and I’ll be performing for you today.”

Stilted applause breaks out—a few parents must recognize her. Or are being polite.

Either way, it’s appreciated, and it keeps Tiff smiling. “I’m going to start with a little original piece,” she says like this is a real concert or generally dignified event. “It’s called ‘Lotus,’ and today, I’m dedicating it to you, birthday kid. I hope your special day is as fun and magical as you want.”

She finds them in the crowd, still seated under the pavilion, and widens her smile. She can’t make out their expression from here, but she’d like to think that they smile back.

And then Tiff takes a deep breath and starts singing.

And… it’s good. She’s not super used to singing acapella, so she’s toeing the line of her comfort zone a little, but the acoustics of the park suit her style nicely, voice clear and strong. Before long, the kids on the very outskirts of the area are drawn in. With them come their parents and their playmates, and eventually everyone is within a reasonable distance of the stage. Even the birthday kid scoots down to the end of their picnic table.

Once she’s done with her first song, Tiff switches to a couple of covers of semi-popular kiddie songs, keeping things classy but light and child-appropriate, fitting her style and comfort level to the venue. She’d done her homework for this job, and she’s glad when cheers and applause ring out after every song.

Tomatoes aren’t thrown at her, nor anything else so cliche. The crowd is full of smiling faces, more and more popping up after each number. Tiff’s singing grows more confident as she goes on, and soon she feels as though she’s shining as brightly as the sun above.

After singing another tentative original, she asks, “Any requests?”

She gets a flurry of responses—some names that she recognizes, others that she doesn’t, others that she’d love to play but are probably not appropriate for this crowd. If she could make her winks visible, she’d be doing so at the parents who suggest those songs.

“Oh, wow! Well, I heard, uh, ‘YMCA’?” Tiff says, going for the one that she’s heard enough times to know all of the lyrics to. “How does that sound?”

The crowd cheers. Tiff doesn’t hesitate before throwing herself into it.

It’s more energetic than she’d expected without the accompanying instrumentals. This isn’t the sort of transformative, unique cover she’d like to do—but no one is recording, no one is going to slap this live version in a park for some kids on a record, no one cares how special or perfect it is as long as she’s singing. So Tiff forces herself to relax and focuses only on hitting the next high note. The very sound is pumping her up, and she can tell from the faces in the crowd that they’re just as pumped, and she grins.

A head-rush later, she’s panting before a cheering audience, dipping the microphone low to the ground like a dance partner as she inhales from a powerful finishing note. She basks in the applause as she stands and bows. She notices that she’s still grinning from ear to ear, that she can’t seem to stop now. Huh.

Maybe the crowd isn’t as high-class as she’d wanted. Maybe the event is childish and not something she should be enjoying as much as she is. But beggars can’t be choosers, and screw it—Tiff is having fun, regardless of what she should or shouldn’t be doing, and that’s enough.

Despite that, though, she already needs a break to cool down and drink some water. Shade and airy dress or no, it’s a pretty humid afternoon, and her throat is already dry enough it’s almost painful.

“I’ll be back for more soon,” Tiff assures the partygoers before gesturing for the kid’s non-florist mom to do something with the music in the meantime. At least, she hopes that gesture gets across.

Soon, a boombox is set up and playing tunes from a recent Disney flick, so it seems to. Tiff’s not into cartoons, so she doesn’t recognize the music, but it’s an appealing enough song that appeases both the parents and their children. She considers the party in safe hands and makes a beeline to the refreshments table.

She’s grabbing a bottle of water when she notices the birthday kid still at a table all on their lonesome. She’s not sure what compels her over there—maybe it’s the fact that they seem so lonely, maybe it’s that she’s wondering if she should surreptitiously remove her gift from the table if they aren’t going to like it, maybe it’s that she’s realized she’s lived in the same town as this kid for their entire life and doesn’t even know their name.

But Tiff, after taking a few big sips of water, makes her way over. She opens her mouth to ask if she can sit with them, but upon noticing her approach, they’re already pointing to the seat opposite them.

“Thanks, birthday kid,” says Tiff, flopping down. Then she notices their downtrodden expression and tilts her head. “Aw, hey, what’s wrong?”

Their hands move in a complicated series of patterns. When they seem to realize she doesn’t understand, their frown deepens, but they gesture at their throat and make an “X” symbol with their fingers.

“Oh! You can’t talk, huh?”

They nod, relieved.

Tiff taps her chin with consideration. This will make any sort of communication significantly harder, so it might be her cue to leave—but it’s not impossible, she thinks as she comes to a makeshift solution. “How about this, then: I can ask questions, and you can nod or shake your head. Does that sound good to you, kid?”

They nod, more emphatic this time.

Tiff smiles. “All right! Is something the matter?”

They hesitate, then shrug.

“Taking the third option, huh? Rebellious. I like it.” Seems this kid has a punk spirit already.

They flash her a grin. They’re missing a couple of their front teeth.

This still doesn’t give Tiff much to work with. She opts for an easier question: “Have you been enjoying my music?”

Their nod turns their entire head into a blur.

Tiff chuckles. “That’s nice of you to—well, not say… express,” she decides. “I’ve been having fun singing for you and your friends, too, so I’m happy to hear that. Have you had any favorites?”

They shake their head.

“Any you didn’t like?”

They shake their head again.

“Aw, you liked ‘em all, huh? Again, that’s awful sweet. Do you think everyone else has been enjoying it as much as you?”

The kid shrugs, then nods, which Tiff takes to mean _I don’t know, but I hope so_. Which could be projection, but hey, she’ll take it.

“Any requests?”

They consider that for almost a full minute before shaking their head. Their hands start to move again before twitching back to their sides, an unspeakable frustration in the simple movement.

“Sorry I can’t understand you, kid,” says Tiff with a sigh. “I wish there was something I could do.”

The kid shrugs and makes an OK symbol with their hand.

“Do you want your moms or somebody to interpret? I’m sure there’s someone here who knows—”

They shake their head—quite emphatically.

“Oh—or we can just keep talking like this if you’re comfortable with it. That’s fine, too.” Tiff has never before been so aware of the reality of how bad she is at talking to children. “Um… are you excited to open your presents?”

Smiling again, the kid nods.

“That’s good. You seem to have quite a lot of—” Tiff pauses. “_Are_ most of them your friends? The other kids here, I mean.”

They shrug.

“Classmates?”

They nod, more confident.

“Do you—” Tiff stops herself before she can ask _have _any_ friends_. From the flat look they give her, the kid hears it anyway, but Tiff coughs and chooses a more open question. “Is there anything you’re hoping to get?”

They start to shrug before opting for a so-so gesture with their hand and a blithe shake of the head.

This method of conversation doesn’t really allow for elaboration unless Tiff manages to scrounge up some paper for the kid to write on, so she nods like she understands before changing the subject again. “Do you want to join in some of—” she gestures toward a nearby field of grass “—the… fun over there? Hang out with your classmates?”

With a disgruntled expression, they shake their head and point at her.

“Oh? You want to keep talking to me?”

They nod with a smile not unlike their florist mother’s.

“That’s awful sweet of you, kid,” says Tiff, feeling herself smile too. Before today, she had to admit she wasn’t big on kids—she doesn’t outright dislike them or anything, just doesn’t know how to interact with them, didn’t even when she was a kid—but this one’s contagious grin might be turning her around. “Would you like playing a game with them any other time? Like, say, if I weren’t here.”

They wrinkle their nose but shrug.

Tiff nods, actually understanding this time. “I’m not big on silly games like that either. I do like singing,” she offers. “Is there anything you like to do? Any interests?”

The kid’s eyes light up. They hold up a finger—which Tiff soon deciphers as a signal to wait—before standing and scurrying off. Tiff starts and moves to stand, but they don’t go far enough away that she feels too unsettled, only to a nearby patch of grass, and their moms are within sight, so she settles back down. She does keep an eye on them as they bend down in the dirt, though.

When the kid returns, their hands are cupped behind their back. Once Tiff looks at them, they hold out their palms—within is a delicate crown carved of wildflowers.

“Oh—” Tiff, for a moment, is awestruck into silence by the craftsmanship, not to mention the resourcefulness. It seems to hold up pretty well for being spliced together with weeds and half-dead flowers by a child’s clumsy hands, which Tiff now sees are already almost as calloused as their mother’s. They’re also covered in little scrapes and cuts—Tiff hopes those aren’t from making this, beautiful as it is. “This is lovely! You like flowers, then? Planning to be a florist like your mom?”

They nod and push their hands forward. It takes Tiff a moment to realize that they’re holding the flower crown out to her.

“Is this for me?” she says, blinking.

They nod.

Ridiculously (or maybe not so), tears prick at the corners of Tiff’s eyes. She’s glad the lenses of her glasses are solid enough that the kid won’t notice. “Thank you, little flower. I’ve never been given something like this before,” she says, taking it with ginger care. She places it on her head with equal caution, smiling all the while. “Fits like a charm.”

The kid’s grin widens, splitting their face in two.

“That really is sweet, ain’t it,” says Tiff, subtly wiping her eyes under the guise of adjusting her glasses. She catches movement out of the corners of her eyes and straightens. “Say, kid, I think your moms are about ready to serve the cake. You want me to sing ‘Happy Birthday’?”

Their eyes go big. They nod, another blur of motion, and Tiff hides a damp laugh behind her palm.

The kid’s moms, as predicted, bring over a big slice of chocolate cake. As the partygoers gather around and join in song, Tiff steps back but makes sure her voice is strong enough to be heard in the center. She claps with delight when the kid blows out their candles with a whooshing exhale, the loudest sound Tiff’s heard any kid make—they might not be able to talk, but they’ve sure got some pipes. Maybe there’s a career in music for them yet.

The florist offers Tiff a smaller piece of cake; she turns it down, stomach already churning, but accepts another bottle of water. Meanwhile, the kid devours their cake like a vacuum—they seem to be some kind of bottomless pit despite their small stature—and moves onto presents with a beam and crumbs smeared all over their face. Or at least they try before their mom wipes their face, clicking her tongue.

Clean and still smiling, the kid begins opening their presents. In the distance, the CD is looping, but no one is paying too much attention to how many times they’ve heard the first track. (Except Tiff. She may not be able to pin down where it’s from or who sings it, but she thinks she’ll find herself mumbling the words before long.)

When the kid opens Tiff’s present—a plain necklace with a silver sunflower pendant—they look up to find her. Their eyes meet, and the kid grins as they gesture their mom over to fasten it around their neck. Tiff breathes a sigh of relief.

After the rest of the presents are opened—the kid makes a pretty massive haul—the other children dash off to play some more, sugar high already kicking in. Even the birthday kid seems to willingly join a game of tag. They don’t look _too_ happy about it, but they’re playing with a hesitant smile, and when Tiff sees the kids leave later they’re all wearing flower crowns.

In the meantime, Tiff heads back to the stage to perform a couple more originals. There’s not as big of a reaction this time, but as long as her clients—including not only the florist and her partner but their child too—are smiling, she knows she’s doing a good enough job.

Before long, the sun starts setting, and people start trickling away in groups. Tiff puts her stuff away at a slower pace than she’d normally go at so she can hang around to talk with the birthday kid and their moms. Once everyone is gone, they’re the ones to approach her, the two women on either side of their child.

“Thank you, Ms. Webber,” says the non-florist mom. Tiff doesn’t know what she does, now that she thinks about it, but she’s starting to think she should find out. “You did a fantastic job. We’d heard you were good, but not _that_ good.”

“It was my pleasure,” says Tiff, meaning it for possibly the first time in her life. “Thank _you_ for having me. And thanks to you, too, kid.” She kneels before the kid, who’s twirling their new sunflower necklace with a hesitant grin. The silver glows against their skin. “Hey—keep living your life to the fullest, okay, flower kid? And… keep smiling. A smile like yours,” she tells them, “could change the world someday, I think.”

Though their eyes are wide and unsure, the kid nods. Tiff stands and thanks their moms again and—while their kid looks away and hums what Tiff recognizes as “Lotus”—works out her payment. They promise an exorbitant tip in addition to Tiff’s already pretty decent earnings.

“I can’t thank you enough, really,” Tiff says, grinning, for what feels like the millionth time. “It’s been a lot of fun performing for you and your child.”

The florist ruffles her kid’s hair. “Only the best for our little flower,” she says, and the fondness in her voice makes Tiff feel at ease.

As she leaves, Tiff holds tight to her flower crown.

Maybe she’ll do some more birthday parties, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading!! if you enjoyed and have time to spare, comments & kudos are always appreciated <3
> 
> [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/withlittlequill)


End file.
